


Vitrification Order

by ialessan



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: (for the most part), Alternate Universe - Cyberpunk, Everybody gets along, Evolving Tags, Friendship, M/M, Mild Horror, what is blood magic even
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-06
Updated: 2018-12-12
Packaged: 2019-02-11 10:35:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 18,496
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12933447
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ialessan/pseuds/ialessan
Summary: What's under Kirkwall?It's the question of the hour.A giant, lawless doomsday city with no discernible lower limit and a persistent pest control problem? (No, that's just Darktown.)A series of sinister laboratories run by an entity known as the Antiquarian and staffed by his army of mute minions?An ancient evil that, even today, whets its ever-growing appetite on the innocent residents of the city?All of those things, actually....Cyberpunk AU Kirkwall. Inspired in places by Fallout, Mass Effect, and the SCP Foundation.Incredibly self-indulgent, and mostly about our problematic faves going about their lives in a very different world.





	1. in which Anders is lost

Anders had not noticed how quickly it had darkened out.

“You sure you want to chance it?” asked Lirene, looking with real worry at the sky. “It’s cloudy out, I’ve heard what those are like. I’ve got a couch and some spare blankets, Anders–”

“There’s no need, but thank you,” said Anders. “The lift’s only a little ways from here. I’ll be fine.”

“You sure you don’t want me to – to the lift, at least?”

“Lirene, really.” Anders didn’t doubt her intentions, but he did doubt her moped’s ability to carry the both of them any distance without falling apart. Duct tape and wishes only went so far. “It’s barely a kilometre.”

“If you say so.” Her expression creased into something sad, but it was gone so quickly Anders wondered if he’d seen it at all. “Maker guide you.”

She closed the back door, and Anders turned to make his way to Darktown.

The roads were not as dark as they usually were in Kirkwall. The clouds reflected the streetlights, bathing everything in a murky grey glow. It was more light than these back alleys would be getting on any clear night, but Anders hurried his steps anyway. He’d heard bad things of what happened to mages who broke Lowtown’s unspoken curfew. Not that he knew _what_ these things were; nobody ever seemed to want to talk about it.

Still, he had his Warden-issue amp with him. There shouldn’t be much he couldn’t handle–

A small noise from an adjoining alley brought him to a stop.

Anders glanced back – yes, Lirene’s shop was right there, within sprinting distance – before looking down the alley. Merrill _had_ mentioned stray kittens – ah!

Was it from in here? A bunch of wet cardboard crates had been discarded outside a warehouse, nestled up against some pipes. Anders knelt and looked carefully into the lowest of the boxes. Two bright eyes peered back at him.

“Here, kitty, kitty,” said Anders, and clicked his tongue.

The cat seemed to shrink in on itself. Perhaps it was unfamiliar with people. Or perhaps it was simply unused to people meaning well. Anders stood: he had nothing with which to tempt the cat out, and he could always come back later. There was no guarantee the cat would be here, of course, but that was the nature of cats.

He turned to exit the alley. Lirene’s shop should be visible from here... except, as he found out once he turned the corner, it wasn’t. There was only the back of a tenement building where her shop should’ve been, floors upon floors of dreary apartments with lines of laundry across the windows, limp in the non-breeze. It looked like a dead end. It had not been a dead end when he’d left the building bare minutes ago.

Anders turned once more and continued down the road to the lift to Darktown, willing himself to calm down. It did not quite work.

The streetlights – Lowtown lights, some of them broken by helpful hooligans – flickered. Not all the shadows thrown up by the unsteady light retreated when the lamps returned to normal. Anders soldiered on, refusing to acknowledge them.

The streets were not exactly as he remembered them. The buildings were silent around him, which was unusual for Lowtown. They seemed to have fewer windows as he kept walking, till the buildings around him were blank-faced blocks of dun stone and chipped concrete.

This shouldn’t have been as hard as it was. He’d used this route so many times. Had it very nearly memorised.

The lift to Darktown should be around this corner–

–except it looked very different. The lift he knew was always busy, surrounded by people trying to get in and out, jostling for space with Coterie goons and hawkers peddling bags of distilled water. The doors had long been pried off and sold for scrap metal. It was a landmark, and it wasn’t even the busiest lift in Lowtown.

 _This_ lift – its doors were riveted shut and cordoned off with caution tape that had seen better days, the plastic sun-faded and flaking. Anders approached to see dust thick on its surface. Had he made a wrong turn, somewhere? There was nobody around to ask.

That should have been his clue. He hadn’t seen another person, human, elf, or dwarf, since leaving Lirene’s, and something warned him against looking back to check.

 _No._ He’d… probably just taken a wrong turn somewhere. Anders chose a street at a right angles to the boarded-up lift and started walking. He could see dark shapes out of the corner of his eye, effortlessly keeping up with him. Was he casting them? Were they just _his_ shadows, cast by unreliable streetlights?

(Unlikely. The shapes had too many limbs to be human.)

No lift this way. The next open space he came across had concentric circles painted on the ground and no doors on any of the surrounding walls. He had _never_ seen something of the like in Lowtown: not in any map of the place, or on any of his visits to the area.

The circles were painted in dark brown. It looked uncomfortably like a target.

He chose an alleyway at random and kept moving. Going just by the time he’d been walking, he ought to have stumbled into the markets by now. At the very least.

Anders got the feeling he was properly lost. He didn’t know how he could get lost in a city he’d been living in for two years, but there was no other rational way he could explain what had happened. He slipped his comm out his pocket to try and bring up his location, but the utility just kept crashing and restarting.

He stared at the bright screen. The comm shook in his hand– no. It was his hand shaking. He killed the utility, put it back in his pocket, and made to continue, but then the lights flickered once more. They stayed off for longer this time, almost a whole second, and came back on one by one.

The shadows trailing him had doubled in number and size, and they had him surrounded.

There was no breeze. No smell to the air, not even Lowtown’s smoky stench. No sound except for his heart in his ears, deafening–

There was something around his ankle, pulling him to the ground; something wet and cold pulling him towards the storm drain. Anders kicked at it. It screamed, or he screamed – he couldn’t tell, not over the thudding in his head. He scrambled to his feet and out of grabbing range, turning and attempting to fry it where it was.

The air around his hand wavered with heat before the amp short-circuited, spitting sparks, sending waves of pain up his arm.

He saw the creature, then, and it looked like an arm, bony and thin-fingered and far too long, bent in the most unnatural places–

The lights flickered again, and then went out altogether.

…

Fenris was having a surprisingly good time.

For reasons known only to Hawke, every weekend she would gather herself, Merrill, and a basket of homemade Fereldan food and make her way to his penthouse. (Varric would join them occasionally, when he could make the time.) They would spend the evening eating, watching trash television, and telling stories. Neither of them seemed to mind that he did not have many stories he cared to share, or that he listened far more than he spoke.

Why Merrill? He did not know, and it had stopped mattering some time ago. He did know that he was a lot more comfortable in her presence than he would’ve been without these meetings. Perhaps that had been the point.

He’d found himself looking forward to today. It had become a bit of a practice of theirs to each bring something tasty to the picnic rug, and he’d obtained a tin of Donarks cocoa from one of Varric’s contacts. (It had not been cheap, but it came with a IG Histoire tag – one couldn’t get chocolate more real than this, if he took Varric’s word for it.)

The cocoa had undoubtedly been this weekend’s winner, and they’d had it with milk, orange, and sweetener.

The evening was drawing to a close. Merrill was telling a story about Ghilan’nain, her voice melodious and soothing, wrapping pleasantly around him where he sat on the sofa. Hawke was curled up on the carpet, nibbling on some seed bread, gettings crumbs everywhere. Fenris felt as at ease as he’d ever been, even though he knew what Merrill was – he knew he was surrounded by friends, and the atmosphere helped him believe it.

It was shattered by Hawke’s comm, which chose that moment to begin making the most alarming noise.

Hawke twisted to her feet, losing her ease in seconds. “Trouble,” she said, glancing at him, before digging her comm out her pocket. Fenris nodded and crossed the room to the closet where he kept his armour, slipping the chestplate over his head and locking the lyrium weave underneath to the grooves in his arms and torso.

“What kind of trouble?” asked Merrill, fiddling with her amp, apparently unconcerned by the interruption.

Hawke sighed. “Anders.”

Fenris’ fingers slipped once on the fastenings of his greaves. Merrill made a soft noise of distress; it made his mind for him. “Where is he? Creators, not Lowtown? Not today?”

“Right in one,” said Hawke, frowning.

“How do you know this?” asked Fenris, picking up his rifle. The battery was near full, and the heat sink was in tolerable condition. It would do.

“Bugs,” said Hawke, unrepentant. “I put one in his coat, another in his boots. Coded one into his amp. He’d probably hate me for it, but I’m not regretting it right now. We’re taking the car – Fenris. You’re coming?”

“Yes,” said Fenris, after too many seconds. He had little love for the man himself, but he _was_ a skilled healer and field-medic. He’d stopped Fenris’ shakes, after all; stuck his fingers in his spine and made it so his reflexes _worked_ again. His reaction to Hawke’s alarm sounding had been stark reminder of that.

Hawke looked at him for a long, intense moment, and he saw gratitude in her eyes. Of course. Hawke and her sister were fond of the mage.

They took the penthouse’s lift to the ground floor service exit and piled into Hawke’s beat-up car, Merrill and Fenris getting into the back. Hawke pressed the ignition and swore when the car wouldn’t start. Merrill, who looked unusually tense, leaned forward and drove her small fist into the dashboard, the impact sending red sparks flying. The car all but hopped to attention, and Hawke looked at Merrill in surprise.

“Uh,” started Hawke, blinking into the rearview mirror.

“Drive, Hawke, please.” She sank into the worn upholstery. Fenris saw her fingers dig into the seat. “Cloudy nights are the worst.”

“This isn’t the _thing,”_ said Hawke. “Is it?”

“Oh, Hawke,” cried Merrill, looking visibly upset. “ _Please._ Feynriel says it’s faster on nights like this.”

“What is happening,” said Fenris, not understanding and not comfortable with it.

Hawke set off, taking mostly back roads and crossing every Hightown speed limit with the ease that came with memorising camera positions. “There’s something under Lowtown. I don’t know if it’s some kind of dark magic, a Fade creature, or something else, but it lives under the ground and–” She made some complicated turns down into what Fenris recognised as the Lowtown market feeder roads. Unlit, underground: they were meant for unmanned trucks and led _everywhere_ – if you could drive in the dark. “It feeds on mages. Traps them, _drinks_ them _dry_. Bethy ran across it once – she was near the Alienage, though, and Merrill found her before–well.”

Fenris glanced at Merrill. Her face was quite pale, and she sat as though trying to make herself appear smaller. Whatever this was, it was real, and it scared Merrill. Fenris could not think of many things that would scare a _blood mage._ How had he never heard of this before?

“You believe this creature has gone after Anders.”

“It turned his amp into so much melted plastic, elf,” said Hawke, and Fenris frowned, taken aback. What kind of power– “Merrill. We’re close.”

“It won’t touch the car, Hawke,” said Merrill, her voice shaky but determined. He smelled the blood before he saw her draw the nanites out of her bloodstream, directing them with her other hand, drawing wards on the roof of the car. The magic brushed his brands, but it did no more than that. He could tell that she was keeping the magic from touching him or drawing from him, and that was not easy.

“We’re nearly here,” said Hawke, and turned onto a surface street. The headlights of her car passed over a limp form slumped against one wall, and Fenris saw, for just a moment, something skeletal crouching over him. It wasn’t there on the next pass. “Oh Maker. Did you–?”

“I did,” he said, grimly. “I’ll go get him.” He tapped his temple, and his visor flicked on. There was nobody there but them, and the body against the wall.

“Quickly,” said Merrill, trembling.

Fenris opened the car door and stepped out. The night was extremely quiet – too quiet. He hurried over to where Anders lay on the ground. It _was_ him, his eyes open and unfocused, his face near grey. There was blood on the ground, on his hands. What had–

The questions could wait.

He heaved him up and ran back to the car. His visor suddenly picked up dozens of unfamiliar signatures surrounding them. Where had they – how had he not noticed them approaching?

“Hawke!” he barked, all but flinging Anders in and getting in after him. “Now! There’s something here!”

Hawke floored it. Merrill pressed a hand to Anders’ throat and sagged in relief. “He’ll make it,” she called, a tremor in her voice, before gently closing his eyes and tying her scarf around them in a makeshift blindfold. She pressed a finger to his forehead; Fenris saw a small red spark disappear into his skin. Anders gasped, his mouth falling open, and patches of red appeared on his cheeks. “I-I’m sorry, lethallin. I can’t let you – you have to stay awake for this.”

The reason for the blindfold was immediately evident. Something rammed into the car from behind, sending it zigzagging wildly. Hawke cursed up a blue streak, Merrill screamed, and Anders stiffened. Hands slammed into the windows, dozens of them – thin hands with too many joints, too many _fingers_ –

They scrabbled at the glass, scratching long lines into it. Fenris felt Merrill’s magic surge once more, and messier this time. The hands recoiled as though burnt, and Hawke regained control of the car.

There was a long, low screaming from behind them, a noise from hundreds of sore throats. Anders whimpered, and the fabric over his eyes was wet. Fenris couldn’t hold it against him.

The screaming grew fainter, and Hawke had begun to speak when they heard something land heavily on the roof of the car.

“Creators preserve us,” whispered Merrill.

Fenris could hear it trying to pry open the sunroof. “Hawke,” he croaked.

“We need out of Lowtown,” said Hawke, her voice strained.

“I – let me,” cried Merrill, and Fenris turned just in time to see her slash her palm open. Nanites flooded to the ward above their heads as blood dripped from her hand onto the seats. The magic plucked harshly at Fenris’ brands but didn’t draw from them. (He would later remember this and be struck by the extent of her control, even in those circumstances.)

“Whatever you’re planning, Merrill–”

“ _LEAVE_ ,” commanded Merrill, otherworldly voices layered under her own, and they heard the creature fall down the back of the car, its claws raking across the back window.

The screaming picked up again, getting fainter as they drove further away, but only truly ceasing once they’d crossed into Hightown proper. They’d passed a reassuringly mundane-looking bakery when three comms – everyone but Fenris’, it seemed – began to ring at once.

Merrill took her call just as Hawke brought the car to a stop. “Hello?” She held it from her ear as somebody yelled at her through the speaker. “I’m okay, Feynriel. Yes. How did you know? No, no, stay where you are. It’s not safe.” Fenris stared at her. Her hand had still been bleeding, and now she was getting blood all over her pastel-coloured comm cover. “I’ll be back tomorrow morning.” She was unexpectedly cheerful for someone who’d looked visibly terrified a few minutes ago.

Anders had somehow extracted his own comm from his pockets. His fingers were leaving red smudges in his attempts to answer– Varric?

“Let me,” offered Fenris, touching his hand gently, and Anders let him take his comm.

“ _Blondie!”_ Varric sounded extremely distressed. “I’ve been trying to reach you for _ages–”_

“Varric.”

“–and – Fenris?” A breath he was fairly sure Varric didn’t know he heard. “Is he okay?”

“Mage. Varric asks if you are okay.” One corner of Anders’ mouth curled up in apparently exhausted amusement. “He’s smiling.”

“Oh, Blondie,” said Varric, and his tone was equal parts exasperation and relief. “Who’s with you? Where are you keeping him? I daren’t move right now, and I’m a dwarf.”

“Hawke and the witch are--”

“Hi Varric,” said Merrill, loudly, slinging an arm around Anders’ shoulders and leaning over. “You left seventeen missed calls. I don’t think I’ve _ever_ got so many missed calls.”

Fenris wordlessly put the comm on speaker. “-- _course_ I did! Maker’s _balls,_ Daisy, the noises out of Lowtown right now--”

“Varric,” interrupted Merrill, suddenly grave. “Not now. Tomorrow.” Something tightened in Anders’ face, and Merrill’s arm drew closer around his shoulders. Her cheerfulness of a moment ago was nowhere in sight.

“Of course, Daisy,” said Varric, sombre. “Where in Hightown?”

Hawke, who’d taken her own call and had been twisted around her seat, listening to them, made a uncertain noise. “How about the Maker’s Mercy?” She didn’t sound too keen on the idea, and understandably so: Chantry-funded shelters wanted too many details and weren’t very fond of elves.

“The penthouse,” said Fenris. “Hawke, do you even know Anders’ full name?”

Anders let out a noise that was almost definitely a laugh; a scoff, at the very least. Merrill looked at him with large, luminous eyes Fenris found he couldn’t hold.

“The penthouse, then,” said Varric, and he sounded amused. “Stay safe, all of you. You too, Hawke.” Fenris put the comm in Anders’ lap once Varric had ended the call.

A few moments passed before anybody said anything.

“Merrill. You realise what this means?” Hawke sounded like she was up to something.

“I finally get to try out all the buttons in the bathrooms?” Merrill grinned sheepishly when Fenris raised an eyebrow at her.

Hawke snorted. “Well, that too, I suppose.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> IG Histoire would be indication géographique, sort of like a GI tag for genuine, sought-after foods.


	2. in which Fenris learns more

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If I sit on this for any longer it'll grow roots.  
> I'm sorry about the wait.

They were silent on their way up to the penthouse. Mostly silent, anyway. Merrill scratched absently at the flaking blood on her palm and it was unusually loud in the elevator cabin. Fenris counted the floors as they passed them. He was satisfied when his count matched the number on the display by the door. 

“Right, this way,” said Hawke, steering a shaky but standing Anders towards the glass door of the penthouse. She stopped right before it and turned to look at Fenris. “The locks, please.”

Fenris tapped his code into the surface of the door before flattening his palm against it. The beam above the door clicked softly and the door swung in. The lights came on one by one when he stepped in, softly illuminating the living space. Whatever Fenris might think of the previous occupants, they had good taste in furnishing. The penthouse was an extraordinarily comfortable place to live.

Hawke led Anders towards one of the free armchairs. Not Fenris’ armchair, he was pleased to see. How did one even get blood out of leather? It had taken a long time to stop squeaking, and he didn’t look forward to repeating the process with any of the other leather armchairs scattered around the penthouse.

“Where’s the first aid stand?” asked Merrill, looking in the cubby where Fenris usually kept it. It had been a drinks trolley a long time ago, with wheels hidden in the base and a small freezer for drinks best consumed cold, but he’d filled it with medicine and the contents of every brand of department store first aid kit he could find. Healing… was not his forte.

“I’ll bring it,” said Fenris, remembering where he’d left it. (His study, after an altercation with the cooking range that had not worked out in his favour.)

“Have you ever been up here, Anders?” asked Hawke, sitting on the arm of his chair and carefully untying his blindfold. “It’s quite amazing. The TV’s to die for. I’d camp out here all the time if Fenris weren’t so territorial.”

“I heard that,” said Fenris, halfway down the corridor towards his study.

“Well, it’s true!” 

The study was quiet and dark. An orange light darted over his face when he closed the door behind him. “Anything new?”

One of the screens turned on, second from the right. Three new threads in the fora. He’d joined them soon after he’d arrived in Kirkwall - they seemed to be mostly run by Fereldan refugees for other Fereldan refugees, but they often had useful information on living and getting around the city. Shops to avoid, advice on handling Marchers, and the like. 

He opened up the first thread. It had a red exclamation mark next to the title, and had been pinned a couple hours ago. Replies had been disabled, which was never a good sign. 

_ WARNING. People with magical abilities and people related to those with magical abilities by blood (up to the second degree), stay indoors. Residents of Lowtown’s Market hexes in particular. It is not safe outside. If you do not have a place you can stay, ask for shelter at the nearest Auro.  _

_ Edit (29 minutes ago): a target’s been drawn. People, please stay safe. _

Fenris closed the window. This  _ was  _ a thing. He’d just never noticed it before… which was a mystery in itself. There was a  _ monster _ prowling the streets of the city (and here he remembered the skeletal creature crouched over Anders) and he hadn’t heard about it till today.

He also hadn’t known Auros offered shelter to apostate mages. He supposed it made a convoluted sort of sense: they served Tevinter street food and were entirely too accepting of Anders leaving mage rights flyers pinned up on their community corkboard… even so, none of it would stop him from patronising them. Nobody else made meat kofta like they did.

He wheeled the first aid stand to the living room, arriving in time to hear the end of a conversation. “--coddling me?” Anders sounded tired and annoyed.

Only Merrill was in the room with him. “I’m sorry, Anders. But I don’t know what else I can do.” Fenris could see she’d started pulling bits of broken amp from his forearm -- it was bloody and it looked painful, but Anders wasn’t so much as flinching. “I don’t think you  _ can  _ fight something like that. Just… stay clear, and try not to think about it.”

“Your blood magic drove it away,” said Fenris, crossing his arms.

Merrill extracted a tweezer from the mess of shiny implements on the top of the stand. She turned the portable light clipped to it so it lit up Anders’ forearm properly. “That’s not exactly what happened.” A pause, and Anders exhaled audibly as she drew out a long strand of something silver-blue. “There we go. I’m glad you used an external amp, or this would’ve been a lot messier. Can you heal without it?”

“Somewhat,” said Anders, sighing. He ran his other hand over the wound on his forearm. The skin there glowed blue for a second, and Fenris saw it begin to scab at unnatural speed. “But you’re waffling.”

“I am, aren’t it? I’m sorry.” Merrill stepped an arm’s length away and began to scrub at her hands with a wet wipe from the stand. She wouldn’t meet their eyes. “You know how sometimes when you visit Hawke and Ralph’s at home, he sort of runs at you and jumps on top of you--”

“How is this relevant?” interrupted Fenris.

“--but if you’re quick you can throw a biscuit and distract him?”

“Maker,” said Anders, going a shade paler.

“It remembers the taste,” said Merrill.

They were quiet for a moment. The aircon kicked in, and a cool draft played over their hair.

“I don’t remember any of it,” complained Anders, breaking the silence. “I know it happened, but I don’t remember it happening. And I can’t think about it without feeling like I’m having an ice-pick driven into my skull.”

“It does that,” confirmed Merrill. She took another wipe and continued to scrub. “Try again tomorrow. After a good night’s sleep? It helps more than you’d think.”

“I’m not sleeping,” said Anders, grim laughter in his voice. “I don’t want to see whatever’s waiting for me in the Fade.” 

“I can help with that, if you’d like,” said Merrill, glancing warily at him. “Bethany couldn’t sleep either, not at first.” 

Anders frowned and stared down at his stained fingers before nodding. Fenris was sure he knew any such help would involve blood magic. Wasn’t Anders used to Warden nightmares? How much worse was this? And even if they did outclass an archdemon, was  _ blood magic _ really the best way around them?

He kept his opinions to himself, however. This was not the time.  

“Um. Fenris? I’ll need to wash.” The tissues evidently hadn’t accomplished much. “Can I…”

“Feel free to press every button,” said Fenris. 

“What about hot water?” 

Right. Wasn’t heated water rationed in some parts of Lowtown? This must include the Alienage… “Unlimited. Help yourself to as much as you like.” 

“You don’t really get  _ unlimited  _ hot water here, do you?” asked Anders, watching Merrill tear down the corridor. He sounded almost impressed. Why? It was hardly as though Fenris had done anything.

“I do, and it’s a pain. They keep threatening to disconnect the utilities if I fall short of their monthly minimum.” Which he did on the regular, being the only soul living in a penthouse meant for a full household and multiple working staff.

“We can help you with that--”

“No.”

“Can’t blame me for trying,” said Anders, almost cheerfully, and it make Fenris feel a little lighter to see him smile. As much as their opinions might differ, he respected Anders as an ally. There were people who deserved such an attack, certainly, but he was not one of them.

Fenris looked around. “Where  _ is  _ Hawke?”

“Ransacking the kitchen,” said Hawke, tottering in under several steaming boxes of pizza as though she’d timed it. “Have I ever told you how much I love your kitchen, Fenris?”

“Frequently and with alarming verbosity,” said Fenris, frowning. “Hawke, I have never bought… heatables.” Ever. The ingredients’ lists on those things were uncomfortably long. He preferred simpler foods -- concentrates, cans, occasionally even fresh produce.

Which unfortunately meant the pizzas had been left here by the former residents… or came with the penthouse and had never been taken out of the vendibox in the cold pantry.

“Hawke,” said Anders, warily. He’d evidently reached a similar conclusion.

“Oh, switch off the healer for a bit, would you?” said Hawke, waving a picture-perfect slice of pizza at him. It smelled divine. “These don’t have an expiry date, and the vendibox was in perfect condition. They’ll last into the next  _ Age. _ ”

“That’s the problem,” said Anders, and his face was a mixture of disgust and morbid curiosity.

Hawke shrugged and took a giant bite out of the slice. 

…

Fenris sat in his study chair and toyed with the hilt of his circuit knife.  

Hawke was in the living room, chugging Herr Sugars and trading with single-minded intensity. She’d had a six pack by her sofa when he’d left her, and that would last her another three hours. 

Anders and Merrill had been given the first guest bedroom. It had surveillance, and he’d told Merrill as much. All the guest bedrooms had surveillance. It had probably not been intended to be the gross violation of privacy that it ended up being.

Fenris slipped the circuit knife back into its holster and stood. He’d never be able to relax if he didn’t check on the mages first. To reassure that irrational part of him that was still keyed up over their presence in his space… if nothing else.

He made his way to the door of their room and knocked softly.

“Come in,” he heard Merrill say, and he stepped in, leaving the door ajar behind him. 

The bedroom was a statement in whites and greys. An Orlesian window on the far end, covered by a thin drape, lit the room in photopollution orange. Merrill sat against the headboard of the king-size bed with Anders’ head on a pillow in her lap. He lay with his hands folded on his stomach, feet off the bottom of the bed. Her hand moved rhythmically on his forehead. The air smelled like pine room preservant, but he could detect the stink of blood under it all.

The lyrium in the skin of his forehead stung with phantom pain. Hadriana had delighted in forcing painful dreams on him--  _ no. _

No. Merrill was not Hadriana. The two couldn’t be further apart. Fenris forced himself to breathe. 

“What are you doing?” he said, managing to sound calm.

“Keeping him from entering the Fade.” Merrill glanced up at him. The uneven light made the shadows under her eyes seem so much darker. “I fixed most of the gaps in his memory, I think. Well. He should be able to remember enough, and the rest will work itself out.”

Fenris dragged up a chair and sat straddling it. “Why are there any gaps to start with?”

“I’m not completely sure,” said Merrill. “Perhaps the mind is just trying to protect itself. Perhaps the creature’s making sure any runaways can’t pass on the word and make it harder for it to hunt.” 

“You seem to know a great deal about this creature.”

“It’s been preying on Lowtown for years, Fenris. Decades, perhaps.” Merrill’s voice had taken on a bit of an edge. “It nearly had me once, but I could drive it off. Many others weren’t so lucky.” She looked down at Anders’ peaceful expression. Her shoulders fell a little. “I’m surprised it went after Anders, actually.”

“Why is that?”

“Well, he’s tainted, isn’t he? And he’s got his connection to Justice.”

“A difficult quarry, you mean.”

Merrill made a noise of assent. “I wonder why it would want a fight. Unless it was really that hungry? Maybe Feynriel would know more.” She glanced at him again. “He’s quite young to be involved in something like this, but he has many good ideas. Floodlights on drones, things like that. Arianni goes out of her mind trying to rein him in.” 

“What about the Chantry, the Templars? Do they not care?”

“It only targets mages,” said Merrill, shrugging. “Mages who should be in their Circles anyway.”

Ah. Fenris looked back at Anders. The creases around his eyes were smoothed out by the light -- and perhaps by restful sleep. The latter seemed always in short supply for Wardens, and particularly for this Warden, what with his cause and his clinic. Merrill very gently tucked away a stray strand of hair with the hand that wasn’t painting blood sigils on his forehead.

“You keep looking at him,” said Merrill, her tone teasing, but she sobered quickly. “Have you seen this done before?”

Fenris found himself rubbing ancient lines of pain above his eyes. “Yes.” Why was he talking about this? Wouldn’t it be simpler to snap at her and leave? She had no business asking, and he was under no compulsion to answer. “It was unpleasant.”

Merrill began to say something, but then evidently thought better of it, shutting her mouth. She stared into the middle distance for a bit before speaking. “Not in the pursuit of scientific inquiry, I suppose?” Her tone was dry, disapproving.

Fenris huffed, almost amused. “Not even close.”

…

Anders woke to Justice’s Fade-blue optics staring him down.

“What are you doing in here?” he asked, blinking furiously. The drapes were still over the window but they let in enough and more of the morning light. “There’s no way Fenris let you in. Did he let you in?”

Justice straightened on his chair -- had the ‘bot been sitting bent the entire time? -- and regarded him with unblinking eyes. “I was watching you sleep.” 

“Creepy,” said Anders, sitting up and scratching his head. He immediately regretted his words. “I’m sorry, I know you didn’t mean it that way.”

The ‘bot inclined its head. “You were in danger, and I couldn’t help. I got lost in Darktown for a few hours, which delayed my arrival. And your companion Fenris required significant persuasion before he would let me in.” The optics shifted focus to his forehead. Anders raised his hand and felt something dried and sticky there; it crumbled red in his hand. “What is that?”

“Merrill kept me from dreaming.” Anders turned around and found a small lump under the blankets on the other side of the bed, near the edge. Was she under there? He poked it experimentally and got no response. 

“Let her sleep,” said Justice, surprisingly accommodating.

“You don’t even like her,” said Anders, one eyebrow raised.

“Sleep has done you well,” said Justice, matter-of-factly. “You look better than you have in months.”

“Gee, thanks. When did you get so  blasé about blood magic anyway?”

“This is merely vital fluid dynamics.” Justice leaned forward and scratched lightly at the flaking blood with a cold metal finger. Anders held back a sneeze. “I cannot detect any kind of Fade residue, either.”

Anders narrowed his eyes at him. “ _ Vital fluid dy-- _ she’s gotten to you, hasn’t she? Next thing I know you’ll be plugged into that horrible little Fade device she’s got in the name of  _ harmonic field research  _ or something--” He ended with a frustrated noise. “It’s a slippery slope, Justice.”

Justice regarded him coolly. “You have a comms message. I suggest you view it before we head out and meet Hawke. You may have to cure a sweetener overdose.” 

“She can do a glycaemic flush by herself,” grumped Anders, searching his pockets for his comm, eventually finding it on the bedside table. “Right. Why did Merrill send me a message? It’s a video… from last night.” He glanced at the peacefully sleeping lump on the other side of the bed. “Hmn.”

He pressed play. 

_ “Oh, hello, Anders! It feels strange to talk to you while you’re right here.” _ Ha, there he was indeed. Merrill looked  _ so  _ tired. Was she staying up all night over her research again? Of course, he wasn’t one to talk...

_ “Fenris just left, actually. Said something about getting into online arguments. That’s not very healthy. People can say such mean things when they don’t have to say it to your face. Though I don’t suppose Fenris has any problems saying it to your face, either… oh, I shouldn’t say that. He  _ has _ been uncommonly kind lately. Do you suppose he got bit by something?  _

_ “You’re probably going to see this tomorrow morning -- or is it today? -- never mind. You should be able to remember what happened, and it shouldn’t hurt when you try to think about it. Take it nice and easy at first. I’ve done what I can; if you’re still missing time, perhaps we can have Feynriel look at it from the Fade end. If that doesn’t work, I still have my clan radio: we should be able to contact them.”  _ She looked ill at the idea, but Anders was admittedly touched that she would suggest it.  _ “Don’t worry, Anders. Whatever happens -- we’ll find a way to fix it.” _

Merrill then looked down at his sleeping form for a long moment before looking up again.  _ “You don’t know about this, but Hawke’s been looking into these attacks for some time now. The magic is  _ old,  _ Anders. Older than Kirkwall. Perhaps as old as Sundermount itself. I understand if you don’t want to get involved, but--”  _ She took a deep breath.  _ “Well, just tell me if you’re interested, and I’ll tell you everything I know.” _

The video ended, and Anders was left looking at his comm wallpaper. 

“Perhaps we have judged her too quickly,” said Justice.

Anders made a noncommittal noise. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All references to a certain Volunteer Fire Department are entirely intentional.


	3. in which Fenris goes to Darktown

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One of the longest chapters I have ever written. It went somewhere odd near the end. Hope you enjoy?

Hawke opened the door and swaggered in, a wooden crate under one arm. “You’re never going to guess, Varric!” Her words were nearly drowned out by the music from the floor below. Fenris watched the liquid in his mug ripple as the door banged against the wall and slammed shut, locking out the noise with it.

“Is that wood?” asked Merrill, looking up from the papers on the table. She was supposed to have been going over old contracts for Varric, but somewhere over the past few hours it had turned into an exchange of humorous anecdotes about clan agreements gone south. (Varric certainly hadn’t seemed to mind.)

“Metal seal and lock, but yes,” said Hawke, still looking incredibly pleased with herself. “Speaking of which. I’ll need your help with it, Merrill.”

“I’ve heard all I need to know,” said Varric, smirking and turning back to his letters. His forger’s lenses slid back down over his eyes, a small light over his right eye illuminating the document currently under his scrutiny. “Another case from that hoard Anders’ sitting on?”

“Indeed,” said Hawke, placing the box in front of Merrill. “He doesn’t even drink any of it. Apparently Justice follows him around and makes him miserable if he does.” 

“Oh, it’s one of these,” said Merrill, absently, running her fingers over the lock. From where he sat -- next to Merrill -- Fenris could see no keyhole or numpad, just a metallic disc where either of those usually were. The box itself was unassuming, made of some dark red wood. 

“Be careful, Merrill,” said Hawke, sitting on the table next to Merrill. “Bituricas are worth twice as much in the box.” 

Fenris had been taking a sip of his drink and watching Merrill scratch gently at the disk, so the full import of Hawke’s words took a few seconds to hit him. He choked on his mouthful and ended up coughing most of it back into his mug. “A  _ Biturica?”  _ Bituricas were priceless aged wines highly sought after in the Imperium; not even Danarius could have claimed ownership of more than a couple cases--

“Mm-hm,” said Hawke, smug. “There’s more in the clinic. He’s clinging to them in case he needs funds for new machinery.” Her tone illustrated just what she thought of  _ that  _ plan. “He actually opened a bottle when he first found them.” 

“Why would he do that?” asked Merrill. “I can't imagine Justice was very happy.” She was still working on the lock, her fingers smoothing over the disk in repetitive strokes. Something was different now, though: the disk was leaking red along its seam, a trickle of the stuff landing on the table. Was that--

“Is that blood?” asked Fenris, frowning.

“Yep,” said Hawke, swinging her legs. “Vints like their blood locks. A primitive way of telling if anybody’s tried opening the box before… can’t have that, can we?” She smiled a shark’s smile. “We’re selling them in mint condition.”

…

Fenris left the Hanged Man, curiosity driving him to the nearest lift to Darktown. How had Anders managed to cough up a case of one of the most sought-after wines on Thedas? The man was not what he’d call a hedonist, and certainly never rich enough to acquire one through legal means. 

Was it a bribe? A princely price, that. And apparently there were more cases where Hawke’s had come from. 

It was just before the afternoon rush, and the lift was blessedly empty. 

Fenris glanced around the lift cabin, as he always did. The cameras in the corners had been, in classic Darktown style, smashed to pieces. One had several layers of duct tape pulled over the lens.

The cabin walls were as colourful as ever: graffiti warred for space with posters for local eateries and various Darktown attractions. A Coterie recruitment poster at eye level showed signs of having being torn down and replaced multiple times. There was even a small sign for a ‘free clinic’ - was this Anders’ clinic? Fenris frowned at the sign. Was he aware of this? 

Knowing Anders, he’d probably been the one who’d put it up. 

Several leaflets promoting the rights of mages -- more Anders, he’d bet -- had been stuck to the cabin wall nearest the door. Somebody’d evidently tried responding with Chantry propaganda -- the poster, one Fenris had seen before on the Chanter’s board, was badly charred. It was almost juvenile.

The lift came to a stop. The doors opened slowly, almost reluctantly. Fenris stepped out onto a busy junction, his eyes adjusting to the dimness after the lift’s bright lighting. 

The lift was placed where three broad corridors met. Bright neon signs lit up the wall panels, and the metal floor was a mess of paper, packing plastic, and dirt tracked in by the residents. It was a noisy, smelly place -- and most of the unhealthiest (spiciest, most tempting) smells seemed to be coming from a cheap fast-food stall across the intersection.

“Watch out, messere!” cried a small, high-pitched voice, and Fenris stepped back just before a low-flying drone shot by, three children perched precariously on its platform. He watched them fly down a corridor and around a corner, the children giggling fit to burst. The drone had seen better days… as had the three joyriders on it. 

Fenris turned and caught another elf watching him. “Quick reflexes,” said Tomwise, in his unassuming way. “You don’t usually come down here. Anything I can help you with?” 

Fenris’ eyes darted to the sign above Tomwise’s head -- 'Tomwise’s Home Remedies’, paint on plastic board -- and shook his head. Before reconsidering. “Which way is the clinic?”

Tomwise fiddled with the boxes of 'home remedies’ on his table. “Just follow the signs,” he said, glancing up at Fenris, and then looking back down at a box. “You don't... look injured. I have antitoxins and common antidotes, if that's what you're looking for.”

“The signs? He put up signs?” asked Fenris, frowning. “Would that not make it easier for the Templars to find him?”

“You’d think,” said Tomwise, giving him a small, cryptic smile. Nothing in his stance or tone had changed, but he suddenly seemed  _ friendlier _ , almost. “Darktown takes care of its own. If you need a guide, however…” He whistled. “Mara!” 

A massive wall panel behind him opened a crack, and a small elf child peeked out. Behind her Fenris glimpsed another corridor just as large as the one he stood in, equally busy and just as full of life… “Yeah?” said the child. Her clothes were ragged and oversized but clean, and her hair seemed freshly washed, curling about her ears.

“Lead this gentleman to the Healer's place,” said Tomwise, chin propped up in his hands. 

Mara gave him the kind of look Fenris had previously only thought Chantry officials were capable of, lingering for longer than a second at his rifle and the spurs of his long-fall braces. “No funny business,” she said. “An’ I want a fifty. Up front.”

Was this a child or a very small adult? Fenris took out a half-silver and passed it to the girl, who secreted it somewhere in the folds of her clothes. “Lead on.”

Mara glanced once again at him. “Least the Coterie will leave us alone this time. Hurry up.” She took off down the corridor, dodging Darktowners with an ease borne of years of experience, and Fenris kept up with her as well as he was able. (He'd activated the mapping utility in his visor, just in case.)

Just as Tomwise had said, the route was peppered with signs. There was one at every staircase and every intersection -- and there were  _ many _ , certainly more than Fenris had ever suspected Darktown had (or needed). Some of them even had a contact code on them… he needed to have a Word with Anders about this. Legendary wines could wait.

“Huh,” said Mara, when she looked back and noticed him glaring at one such sign. 

“What is it?”

She walked for a little while longer, silent, before she stopped. “What's your deal?”

Fenris noted how she’d chosen to stop in a passage devoid of people and establishments. Did she think she could take him on by herself? Surely not. 

“What do you mean?”

She scowled at him. “You ‘doin’ the Maker’s work?’”

“No,” said Fenris, with certainty. “I am -- we have a mutual friend. I have no intention of handing him over to the Templars.” 

Mara gave him a narrow-eyed look and said nothing else until they reached their destination: a large set of blessedly familiar double doors. “Here you are, that's two-fifty, thanks. In change if you can.”

Fenris pressed the coins into her hand and they disappeared as quickly as the down-payment had. “Thank you.”

“Right,” said Mara, already hurrying away. 

Fenris watched her disappear before he turned to the clinic doors.

Inside, things were just the same as they had been before. Powder blue walls, banged-up plastic chairs, lines of clean white bunks separated by opaque plastic sheets… he felt out of place there, with his weapons and his light-eating black armour. 

Anders hurried out from behind one of the plastic sheets, his doctor face on. It turned into a frown when he saw Fenris. “Is something wrong? Why are you here?” He fidgeted with the cuff of his doctor’s coat. “Is the implant not working properly?”

“It's no emergency,” said Fenris, waving a hand. “A… social visit. If you’ll have me.”

Anders’ frown only deepened. “Are you sure you're alright?” He reached forward and pressed the back of his hand against Fenris’ forehead. “Not a fever… you eat anything that tasted funny? Past its sell-by date?”

Fenris tsked and pulled his head away. “Should I leave?”

“No, no,” said Anders. He was smiling now, although he still seemed somewhat confused. “Really. Come in. Justice, do we still have those biscuits Lirene gave us?”

A mech with bright blue optics peered out from behind the ersatz plastic wall. “No. You ate them all after the bigot incident.”

“The bigot incident, yes,” echoed Anders, a haunted look crossing his face. He shook himself and tried again. “What about the rosemilk we got from Melba?”

The mech came fully into view. It was clutching a heap of something pink and yellow. Fenris had horrifying, momentary visions of flesh and fat before the mech got closer and it turned out to be a misshapen mass of wool. “We still have some of that. Good day, companion Fenris.”

Fenris nodded, eyes still on the wool.

“I am making a scarf,” said the mech. It moved one of its arms, and a section of it unfurled towards the ground. It was pink with yellow flowers on it, and surprisingly neatly made. 

Fenris glanced at the mech’s metal fingers. Perhaps not so surprising.

“It's his new thing,” said Anders, tapping a foot. “Um. It's a slow day, and people can ring the bell if they need me. Do you like rosemilk?”

Rosemilk had been a common enough summer drink in Minrathous, sipped cool and sweet. Fenris had had it a couple of times, offered to him by the servers at the more egalitarian functions Danarius deigned to attend... “Yes.”

“Oh good,” said Anders, relieved. “You can have all of it. I’m not too fond of the taste, myself.” He shook his head. “Roses! What a thing to use as flavouring.” 

“It is quite popular in Tevinter,” said Fenris, shrugging.

“So's blood magic, so they’ve clearly got their heads on backwards about some things,” said Anders, grinning when Fenris raised an eyebrow at him. “Come on, the cold store’s this way.”

Fenris followed Anders behind the plastic wall. The large room beyond was his examination room and surgery, full of battered equipment and shelves of medicine. It was a room Fenris had become very familiar with after his arrival in Kirkwall.

Anders followed his gaze. “You sure you don't want me to check your implant?”

“It feels fine,” said Fenris, truthfully.

“No mood swings, hallucinations; none of that, right?”

“ _ No,  _ mage.”

“Hmm.” Anders narrowed his eyes at him. “Well, if you do end up shorting it, you know who to call. I just hope you’ll be able to.”

He led him through a narrow door into a dim back room. The only object in the room was massive machine shaped like an Orlesian silk loom, all shiny steel and plastic. The air smelled sharp and chemical. Fenris could just make out a soft wet sound from the direction of the machine.

Anders had proceeded to the next door, but Fenris hung back, curious. 

“That's my new mass printer,” said Anders, suddenly, and a light panel above the machine turned on. Fenris stared as the machine - and its contents - came into view. “Top of the line.”

Fenris watched the printer weave nearly invisible 'thread' into glistening pink fabric, the entire mechanism submerged in some sort of fluid. “What is it  _ doing? _ ”

“It's printing skin substitute. There's always a shortage of the stuff, what with the constant 'accidents’ over at the Bone Pit.” Anders’ dislike of the Pitt Manufactory was well known. Not that Fenris could blame him - that place was as cursed as a place could get. A week didn't pass without news of chemical explosions or geological incidents. It didn't help that the owner, an irritating Orlesian called Hubert, was the sort of wretch that ‘cut costs’ by skimping on safety equipment.

Anders was still muttering to himself. “Don't know that there's a single worker in the Pit who’s still got a square metre of their own skin. Doesn't help that it takes so long to grow the bloody stuff...”

“I see,” said Fenris, more disturbed than he cared to show. He could see thin purple lines snaking through the skin substitute and it was a disconcerting sight. 

“Well, come on, it's just doing its thing,” said Anders, opening the next door. The corridor beyond was surprisingly simple, with tiled floors and square light panels on the ceiling. “Kitchens are this way. Did I ever tell you this place used to be a restaurant? A high-end sort, too. I think. Very fancy. Hideous wallpaper, massive pantry, the works.”

Which brought Fenris to the real reason he was here. “Yes. About that.”

“Hm?”

“I learned from Hawke,” Fenris started, and he'd paused to form the next part of his sentence when the corridor they were in--

\--it  _ trembled. _

A great wave seemed to roll down the floor, the ground under the tiles appearing to ripple. The noise accompanying it was like thunder. Fenris was saved from falling by his braces, which were shock-negating as well as balance-assisting, but Anders went down on his arse.

“Mage. What is happening?” He braced a hand on the wall as everything trembled again. Dust fell from the ceiling, and the lights flickered. Was it an earthquake? Did they not need to move above ground? “Anders!”

For his part, Anders didn't seem more than moderately annoyed. “What  _ timing.”  _ He got up, rubbing at the small of his back. “It's nothing to worry your head about, just one of the fade-beasts--”

“The  _ what.” _

“Fade-beasts. Large, noisy, actually quite harmless. Unless you consider the damage they do to the Fade-space continuum around here, and Maker knows it's been damaged enough.” Anders began to run, albeit shakily, back towards the clinic room. “It'll be fine once we herd it back into the generators.”

“Yet you choose to live down here,” said Fenris, following him with much steadier steps.

“It's truly not that bad,” said Anders, turning around to grin and almost losing his balance in the process. “Meredith can't see me down here. She can't see any of us. Sure, there's the occasional extra-natural, oversized cephalopod, but--” Another violent tremble sent him falling through the clinic doors, but his mech was there to catch him. 

“Your harpoon is ready, but it has been a disappointingly long time since you cleaned it.” The mech was pressing what looked like a gun case into Anders’ arms. The case was silver and blue and  _ covered  _ with cat stickers. “I fully expect it to jam when you try to operate it.”

“You’re such a ray of sunshine sometimes,” groused Anders. He pulled a lever and the case unfolded into a harpoon launcher the length of Fenris’ arm. All the cat stickers were now on the barrel. 

There was a pause. Anders’ eyes were on the stickers. His voice, when he spoke again, was wistful. “Justice. I miss Pounce.”

The mech placed a metal hand on Anders’ back and rubbed the cloth there in a fashion no doubt intended to be comforting. “Delilah Howe likes cats. I am certain Ser Pounce is being well cared for.”

“Yeah,” said Anders, still looking at the pictures of his cat.

Incredible. Fenris glanced down at himself to ensure he hadn't actually turned invisible. “Mage, we need to go. It cannot be  _ safe  _ here.” The room shuddered violently, as though in agreement.

Anders looked up. “Safer than you think, actually,” he said. “It’ll shake, sure. Like Hawke after a sugar binge. But Darktown’s built to be able to withstand this sort of thing.”

Oddly enough, Fenris believed him. Anders could be wrong about many things - and he  _ was  _ \- but he had not known him to put people in danger. Not even of something as immaterial as a rainburn. Fenris didn't have the fingers to count the number of times the man had harangued Merrill about rainscreen (and healed the acid burns that resulted from her forgetting to apply it).

Darktown was still rumbling, but Fenris willed himself to calm down. He could almost feel the implant kick in, pulling the tension from his limbs and leaving his mind clear. Another thing he had to thank Anders (and Hawke) for. It had taken a few weeks to get over the fact that he now had  _ more  _ metal in him, but this was more medicine than weapon. Not too different from Isabela’s neck brace or the archer’s support Sebastian wore.

“Do you mean to leave the beast roaming the lower levels?” asked the mech, its tone disapproving. 

“It's tempting, yeah,” said Anders, sagging a bit.

The mech clearly did not like this. “Anders!”

“Justice!” Anders smiled wearily at the mech. “It's either go down myself or put together the dozen Carta thugs who go down instead.” He looked to Fenris. “You coming? This  _ is  _ fairly routine, but your help would be welcome. Hawke got me a replacement amp - for the time being - but it's a bit laggy when I try anything heavier than a fireball.”

“You look like you have the situation in hand,” said Fenris, not entirely seriously. Now that he was no longer panicking over a possible cave-in, he rather wanted to see what these fade beasts looked like. Anders did not seem too perturbed at the idea of fighting them - Fenris was fairly sure he’d look more put-upon if Hawke asked him to watch her dog.

“Do I? Because I do not. Justice is probably entirely correct, you know, and this is going to jam when I try to fire it, and I'll find myself with a giant flaming squid snacking on my feathers.”

“A recipe for indigestion if there ever was one,” said Fenris, unable to resist the urge. He did tap his visor, though, letting Anders know he would be coming along.

Anders scowled at him, but one corner of his mouth was twitching. “You're in a good mood today.” He opened his mouth to continue, but the mech suddenly shot out a hand and clamped it over his mouth.

“ _ Unjust,” _ it hissed, its eyes boring into Anders’. Fenris watched, bemused, as he dropped his gaze and nodded.

“I'm almost curious,” he said, dryly, and Anders turned a remarkable shade of pink. Was it a Fereldan talent? He'd seen Merrill turn the exact same colour last week, when Varric had accused her of finishing off the mints in his desk drawer. Perhaps it was a mage thing. He’d certainly never seen  _ Hawke _ blush.

“Uh,” said Anders, intelligently. He shut his mouth and swallowed. “Right. Follow me.” He moved the weight of his harpoon launcher to his right arm and began to walk. As long as his legs were, Fenris was faster, and he could easily keep up with him.

They left the clinic. Fenris was not surprised to see the mech was following them. Their meeting from two weeks ago -- from the night Anders had been rescued from the Lowtown monster -- was still fresh in his mind, and it only built on his suspicions about the mech. Was it merely an illegal artificial intelligence, as Anders claimed, or was there something more to it?

No AI Fenris had ever seen displayed such…  _ emotion _ . Was that the best word? He had let the mech into the penthouse with an EMP grenade in one hand, and it had made immediately for the guest bedroom. It ignored him, Hawke, Merrill-- he’d entered the bedroom to find the mech kneeling by the bed, its head on Anders’ chest.

Merrill, barely awake, had only smiled and shrugged. 

For lack of something to say or do, he’d pointed at her, and then at the other side of the bed. Mouthed “get some sleep.” Left the room to a salute from the other elf. He promised himself he'd consider the mech’s odd behaviour later, but he'd never gotten around to it.

“Tacky Orlesian manufacturing.” Anders’ words cut through his thoughts. Fenris turned to see him slapping at his amp. “It’s Chantry interference, I tell you. Make the amps so bad mages can't do anything with them. Not even heal! It makes no sense. When is healing a  _ bad  _ thing?”

“A bad workman blames his tools,” said the mech. It glanced at Anders. “In this case, the tools are entirely to blame.”

“Does that… am I still a bad workman?”

Another glance. “No.”

“You know, on one hand I'm rather proud that you've picked up sarcasm so quickly, but I’m also secretly appalled. This is not how I raised you.” They had reached an intersection; a steady stream of unusually calm people hurried upstairs from a lower level. “Mara?”

It was indeed Fenris’ guide. She scampered up to Anders with quick, quiet steps. “It's not good, Healer.” Her voice was low. “The others don't know. It's not a runaway from the generators. Too regular.”

“That's not possible,” said Anders, expression unchanged.

“Not a quake drill or the alarms would've gone off.” She gestured for Anders to get closer, bend a little. “Whatever it is, it's in sub-storage 'Mega Nine, and it's  _ mad.” _

“How--”

“Tom has things in 'Mega Nine, and cameras. Well, not anymore, I guess. He says he saw a bunch of people in there before the feed died.” Mara grabbed his free hand and pressed a bunch of vials into it. “Good luck.”

She nodded at the mech, narrowed her eyes at Fenris, and ran off into the stream of Darktowners moving to the upper levels.

“It seems the plan has changed,” said Anders, turning to Fenris. “Still interested?”

“Should I alert Hawke?” 

“Oh, no. No. Probably just some troublemakers who came across a control panel or something. Let's check it out first?” Anders dug his comm out of his pocket. “Let's see… Omega Nine, Omega Nine. Never been there myself-- _ wow _ . Forty-one levels down. Unheated, too: might get a bit nippy.” 

“I'm assuming there's an lift,” said Fenris, an eyebrow raised.

“What, don't feel up to an energizing jog?” Anders grinned and put the comm away. “There's a cargo lift. This way.”

…

The cargo lift was a great box that rattled violently every five floors. Fenris clenched and unclenched his fist in an effort to prevent himself from gripping the handrail. Anders had moved long past pretense and was crouched on the floor of the lift cabin, grimacing every time the cabin shook.

The mech swayed on its heels and quietly watched the two of them.

The numbers -- a mix of Tevinter letters and numerals -- were present in luminescent paint on the inside of the lift shaft. Fenris watched it descend to Chi, Psi, and then the Omegas, of which there were many. The cabin came to a creaking, shuddering halt at Omega Nine, and the doors slid open.

Anders stood and stared at the brightly lit corridor beyond. “We’re going to take a different route.” He turned to Justice. “Boost.” He climbed onto the support the mech immediately created with his hands, reached for the maintenance panel on the roof of the lift cabin, and pummeled the panel with the harpoon launcher until the lock came loose. “Fair warning, the vents might smell funny.”

“The corridor’s right there,” said Fenris.

“The dust on the floor is untouched,” said Anders, pushing the panel open. “Our intruders used another route. And we won’t be blundering right into whatever they’re doing.” He struggled to lift himself up out of the cabin, but the mech gave him a helpful push. His knees thumped on the roof. “Thanks, Justice.”

“Do you need a boost?” asked the mech.

“No,” said Fenris. He bounced on his heels before jumping, gripping the edge of the opening and pulling himself out with relative ease. 

He lifted his head to meet Anders’ highly critical eyes. “Showoff.”

Fenris smirked and moved to make room for the mech.

“If the vents down here work the same,” started Anders, feeling around the walls of the lift shaft. “Ha. Ladder. Follow me.” He pulled the ladder out of the wall and began to climb. He stopped about five metres up and pried open a grate in the wall of the shaft. “Come on! I have to close this after us, or the next person to call that lift gets a nasty surprise.”

The mech hurried up and Fenris followed him, albeit with greater reservations. His visor detected no life signs out of the two of them. (It picked out the mech as an ‘anomaly’, which did not help.)

“I’m sending you the map,” said Anders, and it appeared on his visor. The vents here were quite straightforward, as were the sub-storage units they ran through -- a long sequence of brick-like chambers connected by magrail and equipped with standard utilities. Except…  _ huh.  _ How interesting. Every chamber in Omega Nine was lined with three metres of lead.

Which begged the question of exactly  _ what _ Tomwise stored in here that was so irredeemably irradiated, but that could wait. 

“Do you hear that?” asked the mech.

“Hear what?” asked Anders. The vent was just large enough for the man to crawl through on all fours, and he bumped his head trying to turn. “Ow.”

“Quiet,” said Fenris. He could hear it too. It sounded like people singing. They were still too far away for his visor to pick up, but his ears were sharp.

“Music,” said the mech, but in the same tone Fenris might use to say ‘magister’.

Anders passed by a grate. The light from the room beyond made the feathers on his capelet glitter blue. “Nothing here.”

The music was getting louder. Fenris had heard the like before, and he did not enjoy the implications. It had to be memory: the thick smell of myrrh and burning flesh, the feel of blood under his fingers--

Fenris stared down at the floor of the vent. His hands were covered in a warm, dark ooze. He tried to shake it off, but his efforts ended with him flicking it onto his face. Trying to wipe it off just brought it closer to his nose.

It smelt like the runoff from a burning. He could hear the fire, the chanting, the reporters. Danarius’ cologne, that repulsive cloud of jasmine mixing with the blood in the air--

“Fenris.” 

His vision cleared. He still smelt myrrh, but it was cold metal under his gauntleted hands. There was a hand on the base of his spine; Anders’ hand. Anders, right in front of him, looking at him. A hand on the base of his spine to trigger the manual intervention on his implant. 

His eyes were not mocking or pitying. “You good?”

Fenris took a deep breath. “I will be.” He glanced at his hands, then back up. “Watch out for blood mages.”

Anders nodded, expression grim, and squeezed back up to the front. 

They had passed three more grates like the first when they came to a chamber that was structurally unlike the rest. The vent dipped a little here, and Fenris’ visor told him why: the lead lining was thicker here by nearly a whole metre. It also picked out eight foreign signatures in the chamber below -- still a great distance from them, but in the same room. The singing was a great deal louder now, and while the words were unknown to him, Fenris knew they were Ancient Tevene.

“I see nine figures,” said Anders, squinting through the grate ahead. 

Fenris stared at him. He saw Anders’ expression change before he spoke. 

“One of them-- oh Maker. It’s looking-- move,  _ move!”  _  Anders tried to turn, but it was too late. The grate flew off. The metal of the vent began to scream. Fenris could feel the metal heating up, and prepared to fall.

He registered the mech grabbing Anders around the waist before the vent seemingly  _ ripped itself open  _ in a screech of rent metal, sending them tumbling to the ground of the chamber. Fenris saw a long ribbon of aluminum pull his leg the wrong way before he felt the pain -- the metal gave and dropped him, but not before his weight did its work. The painkillers kicked in before he could truly feel the pain, but his hip was no longer in fighting shape.

“Don’t you bastards come one step closer,” said Anders, and Fenris looked up, surprised at the terror in his voice. Not even Templars…

... _ oh.  _

In the centre of a ring of eight hooded figures stood the skeletal creature from Lowtown, faced their way, an inhumanly long arm stretched towards them. In the bright artificial light of the storage chamber, standing among mundane crates and containers, it seemed even more unreal, somehow even more unholy--

It lowered its jaw. “We have our witnesses,” it said, and it didn’t so much speak as broadcast  _ thought _ , snaking its oily way into Fenris’ mind. He could feel the warmth of his implant working to keep him focused -- the manual intervention Anders had activated was keeping him from emotional extremes.

Anders raised a shield. His harpoon launcher lay forgotten near his feet. “Stay away,” he said, his voice shaking. 

The hooded figures -- all human-sized, possibly all mages -- made low noises, and their shoulders shook. The monster merely tilted its head and regarded Anders with the sunken sightless pits it had for eyes. Anders’ arms were trembling now. 

Fenris… did not know how to help. They had run from this creature last time. They could not run now. His impotence would have frustrated him, but he could not feel it.

The mech, which had been motionless this entire time, raised a hand and placed it between Anders’ shoulderblades, under his capelet. The joints in its arm crackled with blue. Anders’ shield grew visibly stronger, and his arms were steady. This mech was no AI -- it was something far more dangerous, particularly if it had a connection to the Fade.

“You are not the sacrifice today,” hissed the monster, its words a blade cutting through their minds, and it turned back to its circle.

One of the hooded figures stepped forward. Fenris watched through the translucent blue of the shield as the monster lifted them up by the neck. Their feet became visible as they kicked, struggling for air: pink ankles, dirty white trainers with fraying laces. He wanted to shout at them to run, to fight, this was  _ wrong-- _

That was when the world tipped. 

The doors to the chamber blew open and a stream of heavily armoured people poured through from both ends. Each of them was armed to the teeth and firing. The hooded figures reacted immediately, attempting to raise barriers and fight back, but they were swiftly gunned down. 

The monster screeched, dropping the limp body in its hand. Fenris’ armour went  _ wild  _ with alarms, and Anders’ shield momentarily went white. His visor read several  _ thousand  _ rads, for a fraction of a second--

Many of the soldiers faltered. Two of them, wearing mechanised exoskeletons, sprinted towards the monster from both ends. They leaped at it, colliding with it, locking its torso into a cage. 

It screamed, its jaw flopping against its chest. Fenris’ armour detected no second burst of ionising radiation, though he didn’t know if that was because the sensors had blown out. Anders’ shield had not changed from its blue.

The cage crackled red, and the monster collapsed, its many-kneed legs writhing and bending in grotesque ways. 

“Maker,” gasped Anders, his voice shaky. Fenris felt the absence of fear, but he couldn’t feel enough to mourn it.

His attention was back on the chamber door. There was somebody following the soldiers in, a figure so tall they had to bend to enter. They were dressed in black and white and walked on legs whittled to weight-balanced points. Their face was hidden behind a Tevinter theatrical mask, its features twisted into a smile. 

“ _ INCAENSOR,”  _ shrieked the monster, its voice loud but no longer threatening.

“Not quite,” said the tall figure. Their voice was deep, artificial,  _ amused.  _ Perhaps it was fitting, but they did not put Fenris at any more ease than the monster did. “Not that it matters, of course… men, take it away. A lead-lined cell  _ would _ be most appropriate. Can’t have it damaging anything else in the collection, can we?” 

The soldiers obeyed with a promptness that belied their commander’s lazy drawl. They hooked metal cables to the cage around the creature and heaved it onto a pallet, which the soldiers in the exoskeletons pulled out of the room. Fenris had no time for that, though. The tall figure was walking towards the three of them.

“No further,” warned Anders, pushing the barrier out.

“I have no intention of harming you,” said the figure. “Rather the opposite, in fact.” They bowed. “I am known as Xenon the Antiquarian, and I am  _ pleased _ to make your acquaintance.”

“The  _ Antiquarian? _ I’ve met one of your kind before,” spat Anders, suddenly furious. “One of you freakish ageless--”

“Yes,” interrupted Xenon, straightening. “The Architect has been… reprimanded. As you well know.” A very realistic sniffing noise came from behind the mask. “My focus is quite different, however. I collect things. People. Creatures. Anything… unusual.” And here Fenris felt the figure’s gaze travel over all three of them. There was a subtle barely-there threat to the silence that followed.

“And?” snapped Anders.

“I have been hunting a certain prize for a  _ long  _ time, and I have found it trapped deep below Kirkwall.” A raspy chuckle. “No wonder they call this the City of Chains.”

“What is it?” 

“The ultimate addition to my collection,” said Xenon, their hands clasped in front of them. “A  _ god.” _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heh heh. Who needs everlasting youth if you can just move in Mr House-style?


	4. in which there is a reveal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fenris learns more about Justice.

Fenris’ drift into consciousness was backed by an orchestra of beeping monitors and metallic clicks.

His eyes were slow to open, unusually so. The air smelt like cleaning liquid and elfroot ointment: sharp smells that stung his nose. He could feel a soft, light blanket covering him, the fabric brushing gently against his arms and legs.

...his bare arms and legs. _Where_ was his armour?

Fenris tried sitting up, and very nearly screamed when his lower back refused to play along. It didn't matter, though, he'd seen enough. He was in Anders’ clinic -- he knew no other establishment with those sad plastic walls -- and that meant he was safe. Probably.

“You're awake.” It was the mech. The clicking noise came from the knitting needles in its hands. “Don’t sit up. Anders fixed your hip, but he had to replace parts of your implant.”

That explained the numbness in his back and its general unwillingness to co-operate. But… “Why?”

“Radiation damage,” said the mech, still knitting. “He also had to do a full anti-oxidation sequence. Including a marrow renewal, which I’ve never seen him do before. He was very upset about the amount of rads you had taken. I recall him saying it would have been a fatal amount for nearly anybody else.”

His eyes bulged. Had he heard that correctly? “Fatal.” He’d _remember_ taking that many rads, but all he could recall was a feeling of having witnessed something dreadful and violent. His most recent memory was of greeting Varric in his room at the Hanged Man… what could have happened since then? He couldn’t remember. It left an unpleasant taste in his mouth.

“Yes, fatal,” intoned the mech. “Would you like some water? Anders said to offer you a glass of water if you were to wake up before he was done.”

Fenris swallowed and found his throat dry. “Yes.”

The mech put down its knitting and hurried out of sight. It came back with a steel tumbler of water and a bendy straw. The tumbler was decorated with tiny battery icons and had the Herr Sugar logo near the bottom. “Anders also said you should drink slowly, or you might cough and do damage to the inside of your throat.” It watched him sip on the water. “Sometimes I consider myself fortunate I am made out of metal.”

Fenris gave it a chary once-over. “Most mechs are.”

“Yes.” The mech did not pick up its knitting. “Except, of course, I wasn’t always a mech. Anders would have me keep it a secret -- of course, it is his secret too, what parts of it pertain to him -- but deception is unjust.” It made a low whirring noise. “Bringing it up at a time like this, where you are not at liberty to leave, is also unjust. I apologise.”

Fenris wanted to yell. He restrained himself to turning clumsily onto his side and putting the tumbler on the ground by the bed. His back protested all of it, but the pain only fed the irritation he felt. “And now I’ll just have to guess. What are you? A rogue AI? No, something else. You can reach the Fade.”

“Yes. I am from the Fade. I am certain that helps.”

Fenris felt the blood chill in his veins. Was he in the same room with a… _no._ Certainly not. Anders had better sense than to dally with _demons._ (He hoped.) But what else could it be?

And here he was, helpless on a clinic bed with his back in literal pieces. _Fool!_ Except he wasn't helpless, of course. He still had the lyrium lattice under his skin. And he had endured far greater pain in the past.

“I didn't picture Anders to be the sort of mage that dealt with _demons,”_ said Fenris, his voice hoarse.

Those unnatural blue eyes grew noticeably dimmer for a second. “You were correct. I am not a demon, and there were no deals.”

Fenris had taken a breath to begin arguing when a hand came down on his shoulder and nearly sent him flying off the bed. “I leave you two alone for half an hour,” said Anders, wearily. “Justice. You blabbed, didn't you?”

“I do not like lying,” said the demon, its tone more petulant than contrite. Fenris barely heard it over the thudding of his heartbeat in his ears. Anders should _not_ have sneaked up on him.

“Yeah, Justice. I know.” Anders squeezed Fenris’ shoulder, and he bristled. “And you. I know you're missing your implant, but there's no need to lash out, not like this. I'll explain everything.”

“You had better, _mage,”_ snapped Fenris. “Or Hawke hears.”

“I'm fairly sure she knows,” said Anders, faintly. “Bethany does. Merrill knew immediately--”

 _“Blood mage,”_ growled Fenris.

“Varric knows too. You're not going to accuse _him_ of blood magic, are you?” Anders sighed. “Look, Fenris. I'm sorry for what happened. More than you can imagine. Just… let me heal you.”

Fenris glared at him from the corner of his eye for several long seconds before he relented, moving so that he lay on his stomach towards one side of the bed. Anders gently pulled him closer, managing to do it without jarring his spine. There was a healing current in his hands, forcing him to relax and breathe.

A pleasant warmth trickled along his backbone. Wretched man and his wretched magic!

Fenris shuddered as he felt something being pulled from him. He could feel Anders working with the seams where the lyrium lattice met the implant port over his spine, his fingers leaving spots of sensation whenever they brushed against the lyrium. Anders murmured something and his demon stalked off to obey. No wonder they worked with such synchronicity.

Anders exhaled loudly. “Sometimes I wonder how Danarius got the lyrium under your skin like that.”

Fenris tamped down on a burst of red-hot rage. It continued to boil in his chest. “You _would_ enjoy knowing how to do something like that.”

“Because I'd like to know how to treat you properly!” snapped Anders. “You’re just lucky you haven't had some part of the lattice broken yet, because I wouldn't have the first idea how to fix it. I don’t even know if it _can_ be broken, or what that would even look like!” A beat of silence. “Do you truly think so little of me?”

Fenris said nothing.

“I see,” said Anders, and he sounded so Maker-damned _miserable_ that Fenris now felt compelled to say something. Anything. But then the demon was back, its metal feet clacking against the ground, and Anders was murmuring to it again, and Fenris remembered that sympathy wasn't something to be wasted.

He grit his teeth when he felt something being pushed into his back. It slid into place with a smooth, wet noise, and Anders ran his hands over the skin at the seams. The lyrium in his back tingled as healing magic ran along the lines.

“Deep breath,” said Anders. “I’m booting it.”

Fenris did as he was told, and braced himself for the lights.

They came, just as they had the first time Anders had put in the implant. Bright bursts of white, accompanied by a soft fizzing along his backbone. The muscles in his back lost their constant tension, the sudden ease bringing its own (rather enjoyable) ache.

Waves of calm washed over his mind. The objects at the edges of his vision grew crisper, and the angry heat in his upper torso simmered down till it was almost gone.

His mind was clear again. He had somehow forgotten how good it felt. How had he not _missed_ this?

Some shuffling as Anders stepped around to look at him. “How do you feel? The implant’s doing fine on that end. I'm just glad Hawke thought to order a spare. Which reminds me, I should tell her about this…” He took out a slim penlight. “I’m going to check your eyes. Look here.”

Fenris looked at him. At Anders’ reddened eyes and dull hair, and at the numerous patches of denuded flesh all over his face and neck. “Mage. Your skin!”

Anders smiled wryly. A spot of pink flesh near the corner of his mouth bloomed red when his skin stretched. “Where's this concern coming from?” He switched off the light. “You'll be okay in an hour or two.”

Fenris them remembered his words and felt regret. Not at his feelings, but at how he'd attacked Anders. And he was sure Hawke would have a good reason for keeping a demon around. He had, after all, gotten used to Merrill’s presence, as hostile as he might have been to the idea of having a blood mage around.

Why had he not considered these things before?

“It looks painful.”

“I'm not gonna lie: it _is.”_ Anders rubbed idly at one of the patches. Fenris fought the urge to reach up, pull his hands away from his face. “Just as well I printed all that skin, huh?”

“Is the damage that bad?”

“I have a lot of practice with skin,” said Anders, one eyebrow raised. Some of the hair from it was missing, and now Anders was picking at it, making it worse. “Concentrated patches of Blight can burn Wardens if they fall in it, and we did our fair share of falling.”

“Mage--”

“On one occasion we fell into the Fade. Found a pocket in the continuum where a powerful malevolent intelligence - a _demon -_ had trapped the residents of a small town. The only real help they had was a spirit of Justice, doing his best to keep the demon at bay. When we managed to end the MI, the Fade pocket collapsed, and we found Justice had somehow come with us.”

Anders would not meet his eyes. Fenris felt his regret keener now.

“He got stuck in the Warden Commander's comm for a while. Shorted it out. Kal wasn't angry, though.” His tone changed, become thoughtful. “She… she got one of the engineers on base to create a mech shell for him _and_ keep quiet about it. Which can't have been easy, actually. Wade can't keep a secret to save his life.”

“She offered to send me back, but I had seen things I could not ignore,” said the de—the mech, quietly.

“Yeah. She only ever showed me her cat pictures, but Kal had a lot of rather horrifying recordings on that comm.” His gaze was distant for a moment, but then he turned back to Fenris, looking unpleasantly chipper. “Speaking of horrifying recordings. Ready to get your memories back?”

“My… what?”

“Your memories. They go through the implant first, bake for a few hours.”

Fenris stared, alarmed.

“It was in the insert, didn’t Hawke give you the insert? Brain-specific recall technology. They wouldn’t make any sense to me, or to any brain that wasn’t yours. I did manage to save and restore most of it, though that's really Merrill's specialty. Ask her if you want them in high-def, or if you see anything unusual. Pink tigers and so forth. That’s probably on me.”

His tone was cheery but brittle, and Fenris knew he was the cause.

“Well?” Anders waggled his fingers.

“Go ahead,” said Fenris, knowing he was about to give flesh to those feelings of dread he’d felt since he’d woken up, and already regretting it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Radiation poisoning is wack, you guys. Good thing this is cyberpunk?  
> Also. The implant is not supposed to be some sort of universal panacea for Fenris. It is supposed to be a sort of hormone release control device (with the memory processing unit intended to strip otherwise traumatic events of the worst of their aftereffects). Anders is not being a good doctor here as he did not explain all of this to Fenris before he installed it.


	5. 5. in which Fenris recovers

_“Yeah, stuff it,” said Anders, gesturing dismissively. “We all know what the Architect wanted to—”_

_“Will you stop bringing him up?” interrupted Xenon, sounding decidedly less amused now. “I am_ not _him. I have no intention of being_ anything _like him. In fact, we’ve put him in Coventry, and I’m not funding any more of his research.” He crossed his arms. “Which puts him below Avernus, at this point. And you know he’s only part of us on sufferance.”_

_“Right,” said Anders, but he did sound a lot less defensive._

_“In fact, unlike my peers, I have_ zero _interest in ghastly experiments.” Xenon flung his arms out. “I am a collector, a curator! I know what I’m seeking and I have ideas as to where I might find it.”_

_“What makes you think we would be interested in any of this?” asked Anders._

_“It sounds like risky business, hunting gods,” remarked Fenris, meeting Anders’ eyes when he glanced back at him._

_..._

There were gentle hands holding him up. He felt fabric shifting under his legs. A machine hummed in the background.

“Justice,” called a familiar voice. Anders’ voice. “Is the marrow ready?”

...

 _“Why do any of us embark on anything even remotely risky?_ Rewards, _of course.” Xenon steepled his fingers. “I have many things in my collection that will prove ample recompense, whether on their own or auctioned off.”_

_“Eh, pass,” said Anders, uncharacteristically laconic. “Fenris? You feel up to a spot of godnapping?” There was something in his tone that more than implied he thought Xenon was full of bronto shit._

_“Hawke might be hurt you’re opting out,” said Xenon, clearly playing his Angel of Death._

_“How’d you get Hawke into this business?” screeched Anders, defensiveness dialed back up to eleven. Fenris didn’t understand his consternation. This was_ Hawke. _This was exactly the kind of thing she’d be interested in._

_..._

“Anders.”

He heard crying and felt a small but present urge to avoid it. He wasn’t good with emotions.

“Anders, please stop. Shall I make you a scarf?”

The crying was interrupted by teary laughter. “No, Justice, it’s okay. What would you put on it anyway?”

“Small cats.”

...

 _“Simple,” said Xenon. “She’s hunting it too. Something about objectionable feeding habits, I don’t know. Maybe it’s a territory battle. Now_ that _would be interesting.”_

_Fenris felt a chill creep down his spine. “Feeding habits?”_

_“Indeed,” said Xenon. “Every so often it sends out feelers to the surface, like the one you saw here. Used to happen every few months or so, but that was decades ago. It’s been hungry these past few years. Maybe it’s planning something big: an escape, perhaps?” Xenon raised one hand to the mouth on his mask and tapped the ceramic with his fingers. “Or perhaps it’s getting_ weak.”

_Anders was silent. The mech moved a nearly imperceptible inch closer to him, and then he spoke. “Tell me everything you know.”_

_Xenon chuckled and stepped back. “Now_ that’s _what I like to hear.”_

_…_

Somebody gently parted his lips and fed in… the head of a straw? “I know you’re busy right now, but you need to drink some water,” said Anders. Fenris didn’t argue with him.

“He is healing well,” said Justice.

Anders hummed in assent. “But we’ll only know when he wakes up.”

...

_“Don’t--” started Anders, but he was interrupted._

_“You deserve more than a rushed explanation in these unpleasant surroundings.” Unpleasant was a mild way to describe the room. Red mist still hung in the air and the floor was slick with blood and viscera. “Come to the Emporium. We will talk there. Just… do something about the radiation damage, if you can.”_

_Anders cried out. His fingers flexed. Panacea hit Fenris like a hard pillow in the stomach._

_“A little too late for that, I’m afraid,” said Xenon, almost cheekily. “Good night, gentlemen.”_

…

Fenris woke to a sawmill snore.

He sat up, frowning into the darkness of the clinic. A nearby clock with luminous digits told him it was early morning. A nearby mech with luminous eyes—

“Good morning, Fenris,” said the mech. Justice. The thing was still working on its scarf, but the soft clicks of its needles were inaudible under the _snoring._

“Mmn.” Fenris reached around and rubbed at his spine. “How long?”

“Anders has been working on you for most of yesterday. He has only just fallen asleep. Waking him will be difficult, but not impossible.” Justice wound its knitting around its neck and flicked on a nearby lamp, revealing the small, tarp-walled room they were in. Fenris eyed the many medical devices silently arrayed around the head of his bed. None of them were connected to him. “He is noisy when he sleeps on tile. I will wake him up if you find the noise objectionable.”

Fenris very nearly said yes. “Is it not possible to _move_ him?” Where _was_ the wretched man, anyway?

“That is possible, yes,” said Justice, its eyes brightening slightly. It knelt and scooped something from the ground by Fenris’ bed. “I will put him on the sofa. He claims it is bad for the back, but it cannot be worse than the floor.”

It was Anders, his mouth open and evidently the source of the unearthly noise. His face was covered with neat squarish patches that weren’t quite the same colour as the rest of his skin. Part of his eyebrow was still missing, however, as was a substantial part of the hair at one temple. “Healer, heal thyself,” Fenris muttered.

Anders suddenly stopped snoring. He twitched, sniffed loudly, and curled up against Justice’s metal chest, murmuring in his sleep. The mech’s eyes dimmed for a moment, and it carried him out of the clinic room. Fenris still didn’t know what to make of it, but he’d certainly never seen a demon act that way. Spirits must be different… but _how_ were they different? Didn’t all these Fade entities want, essentially, the same thing? This was unknown territory.

So was Anders, honestly. Fenris glanced once more at the medical equipment behind him. It was all name-brand, with brand plaques he’d seen on machinery Danarius himself had used. Expensive instruments in a room with curtains of repurposed plastic tarpaulin… Anders was _entirely_ unknown territory. 

…

“—was a scalpel, to eat bread and cheese, and tee was a tourniquet, vessels to squeeze!”

“Anders. Stop.”

A bright laugh followed by a deep breath. “Fol de _rol de rol—”_

“Anders: stop or I will stop you.” It was the mech. Fenris felt a sudden affection bloom in his chest. “You have a patient in the clinic.”

“Yeah, but it’s Fenris. I could sing like Andraste and he’d dislike it on principle.”

“That is unjust.”

“Probably,” agreed Anders. “How long was he awake? Did he move around too much? The seams on his back were healing nicely, too. If he rips them before a week’s out I’m going to— _argh.”_

“Unlikely. Your stitches were remarkably even,” said the mech. “Very low deviation.”

“That’s not what keeps seams together,” said Anders, amused. “Come on. Let’s go get lunch. I want that spicy meatball surprise thing from the Greasy’s. Everybody keeps telling me I should try it.”

“They do that in the hope you will find what makes people sick after they consume it,” said Justice, blandly.

“Aw, really?” Their voices passed into another room, and Fenris was finally alone. He took advantage of the silence; he rolled to one side and went back to sleep.

The skin on his back stretched as he moved, but it did not tear.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i am a punching bag, and work is an enthusiastic kickboxer


	6. in which terrible news breaks

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> omg a new chapter?? i am so sorry

Knight-Commander Meredith was _furious._

Cullen himself felt mostly pity. He wished he could blame this on blood magic, but what he felt seemed like nothing so much as the exact opposite, an _absence_ of magic. All mages carried a spark of it with them, one he could _feel,_ almost, if he concentrated. Even the Tranquil carried it, somehow, as did humans with mages in their family, and a statistically significant majority of elves. But these poor wretches didn’t have even that much.

Their chests rose and fell with their breathing. If he hadn’t looked carefully he could have convinced himself they were sleeping.

First Associate Orsino stood, and for a moment it looked like his age had caught up with him. His shoulders were hunched, making him appear strangely small inside his jumpsuit, and his fingers were white-knuckled where they were wrapped around his conductor. He straightened in seconds, but he did not meet their eyes.

“Well?” barked Knight-Commander Meredith.

“It’s the wasting,” said Senior Associate Helga. It had been quite a shock for Cullen to find there were only two – well, one _now_ – Spirit Healers in the Gallows Sanctuary, for all Kinloch had been full to bursting with them. And Senior Associate Helga was unlike any he’d met. He’d been intensely suspicious at first, since she spent all her time doing nothing but reading and tending to her plants, but perhaps that was the safest state for a Spirit Healer. Volatile as they were.

Not that Helga looked very volatile. She reminded him of some ruminating animal – large, slow, and not particularly intelligent.

“Explain,” said Knight-Commander Meredith, through gritted teeth.

“Every few months,” said Orsino, still not looking up, “one of us turns into _this.”_

 _“Highly_ unlikely.”

Orsino continued as though he hadn’t been interrupted. “Of course, only _we_ know. We make it look like an ordinary death. Deaths are frequent enough in this cursed place.”

Cullen knew what he was referring to. Five in the past year, four of them past their Harrowing. He had not bothered to learn their names. (That just… made things difficult.) He’d attributed it to a ‘natural’ fallibility, at first; of late, however, he’d begun to question the wisdom of his Commander’s iron-fisted rule over the Gallows.

To hear it was _this,_ instead, almost reassured him.

“So they were murders,” spat the Knight-Commander. Cullen stared at her, his relief of seconds ago evaporating.

“They are already dead,” said Senior Associate Helga, tone emotionless. “If I may leave, First Associate? There is still the second batch of embrium to distill.”

“You may,” said Orsino, looking sadly at the bodies. “Knight-Commander. This is the first time so many have succumbed at once – it usually takes us one at a time. There are no traces of magic we can use to find out what was done, or who might have done it… believe me when I say I am telling you everything I know.”

“You really have no idea,” confirmed Cullen, frowning.

“None!” cried Orsino, squeezing his eyes shut. “This has happened for as long as I can remember, and even my predecessors had made note of it, though there were always _other_ things to blame back then… but it was never so many at once. Never _eight,_ overnight.” He looked back at the bodies. “Of course, you’ve already made up your mind, haven’t you?”

The Knight-Commander did not say a word.

Orsino’s face twisted. He finally looked up at them, his eyes like chips of cold stone. “Of course you have. We must be enemies even in this.” His fingers tightened around his conductor, to the point where Cullen half-thought the bones would break through his skin. “If you have no more need of me, Knight-Commander.”

He left without waiting for a response, his bare feet silent on the infirmary floor.

…

Senior Associate Helga walked with slow, even steps to the greenhouse wing. She nodded at the mages she passed, and ignored the Templars. They preferred it that way. She preferred it that way.

Orsino caught up to her. “Helga. I’m—Maker, I’m so sorry.”

Helga only sped her steps. This was not a safe place. And Orsino knew that; he kept pace with her, silent, until they reached the turn to the greenhouse. Templars usually disliked standing around the greenhouse wing because of the wet heat that escaped from the garden rooms, and so it was a good enough place to talk and share information.

“Helga?”

She pressed her hand to the greenhouse door seal, stepped through the foot bath in the entrance, and made it halfway down the rows of golden elfroot before the tears began to roll down her face.

“Oh, Helga.” Orsino held her as she sobbed. It was silent – you learned to cry silently in the Gallows – but each sob sent a shudder through her body. Orsino only hugged her tighter, moving to stay close to her when she fell to her knees in the wet mud. Helga was suddenly reminded of her days as a Novice, when Orsino had been her mentor, and how she’d always been taller than him, even at ten—

And now she was crying about something else entirely, but Orsino understood. He always did, even without her having to say anything.

“I’ll give you first claim on the things in her desk,” he said, very softly.  

“Thank you,” said Helga, wiping her nose on her sleeve.

Orsino gently drew her fingers away and dabbed at her face with a thin handkerchief. “I’ll talk to the others about a memorial. Maybe tomorrow night, or the night after. I’ll let you know.”

Helga nodded. “I should get to work.” Her voice only cracked once.

Orsino looked at her and smiled sadly. “Okay, Helga,” he said, and got to his feet. “I trust that--”

“Ugh, and I just cleaned those!”

Helga winced, and Orsino’s lips went tight over his teeth.

Heavy feet made wet noises in the mud as the Templar – whichever sap had drawn the short straw this time – made their way to them. “You in here, magey?”

“I’ll see you at vespers,” whispered Orsino, squeezing her shoulder. Helga didn’t look when he left. She knew this Templar, and had very little reason to fear him, but it never helped to let them know mages talked without them listening.

“Maker, you’re _bathing_ in it!” said Ser Carver, when he finally rounded the corner and found Helga sitting in the mud. “What are you doing down there? Burying treasure?”

“I am taking samples of epidermal—”

“Now that I think about it, I don’t actually care,” said Ser Carver. “You can do that later. Get up. Move.” He took a step forward that was clearly meant to be threatening, but Helga stood in her own time.

Ser Carver scowled at her. His face was pale, and sweat was beading on his temples. Right, the humidity couldn’t be good for his lungs. A drawback of these old nanotube models, really. Water could build up after a while and leave the breather feeling perpetually winded.

Helga pulled away the worst of the moisture in the air around Ser Carver, but he didn’t seem to like it. He took another step forward, visibly angry. “Who told you to use magic on me?”

Helga looked at him with some kindness; she couldn’t help it. She’d seen his sister drag him in about two years ago, bloody and screaming, his torso a crunched-up mess of bone and emergency stents. She’d been wrist-deep in his chest for days after – Meredith had for once insisted on a thorough job, and only because she’d demanded his recruitment in exchange for healing. She’d even parted with the funds for a ready-to-order set of lungs instead of forcing her to grow them from scratch.

Among the things she’d learned was that Ser Carver talked under anaesthestic. A great deal of it was about his family, and how half of them seemed to be mages, if all his mentions of fireballs were any indication. Apparently they took joy in making his life miserable, but joining the Templars seemed an extreme way of getting back at them for it.

“Don’t spend too long in the greenhouse,” said Helga. “The damp isn’t very good for your lungs.”

“I’ll go where I like, and I’ll stay wher _ever_ I want for as _long_ as I want!” Ser Carver shoved her aside and stomped down the mud path. Helga fell onto an elfroot plant, breaking a thin stem and getting even more mud all over herself. It was only when she sat up that she felt something small move in her jumpsuit pocket.

Helga reached in; her fingers closed around a data stick, small and sleek. She hadn’t put it there: indeed, she’d last seen the thing several weeks ago, disappearing up Selby’s sleeve as she fished for change for a jar of ointment from the Gallows’ courtyard. How had it— _oh._

It made sense once you thought about it. All the bossing around, the bullying… she’d have never suspected _Ser Carver_ of moving information for the Railroad.

…

Anders put the tiny scroll of paper down, blinking helplessly at it for a full minute. “This – this can’t be true.”

“My associate has no reason to lie. She…” and here Selby sighed, her features softening, growing sad. “Her partner was one of them. They took great pains to keep their relationship hidden from the Templars, but in the end…”

Anders looked up at her, stricken. _Eight people._ “No!”

Selby frowned. “Do you know something?”

“How would I? I mean—” Anders’ mind flew faster than he could keep up with, and occasional bursts of unholy memory gummed up his words before they left his mouth. “The other day. The--thing that caught me. It was under Darktown, in one of the—”

_—a skeletal arm with three elbows and more fingers that any hand ought to have—_

“Go on,” said Selby, her voice sharp.

 _—pointing at them,_ marking _them—_

“In one of the s-storage chambers. There were eight people there. Eight—”

_—WE HAVE OUR WITNESSES—_

Anders started when he felt a blanket being wrapped around his shoulders. “Selby?” His voice did not sound like him. But he knew this feeling, this empty, howling horror, and he _hated_ it.

“You were shaking,” said Selby, not unkindly. She took a bottle out of her tote bag and turned a few rings at its base. The cap turned red and the bottle began to hum softly. “Here, hold this.”

Anders took the bottle. It was pleasantly warm. He gripped it in one white-knuckled hand and stared at the false lacquer on the table. Some previous patron had chipped bits of it off the edge, which made it look slightly nibbled at.

“There’s water inside. After five minutes it’ll be good and hot. You should have some.” Selby sighed and stood. “Whenever you feel up to recounting what happened, record it and send it to me. Use the key… one-fifty three iterations should do.”

“Mm,” said Anders, frowning. Selby could get fastidious about data security, but he supposed a Railroader of her reputation didn’t get there by being careless. There was a rumour she’d moved more than seven hundred people, both slaves and mages, and Anders saw no reason to doubt it. “Wait. Your bottle.”

“Keep it,” said Selby. “I get them discounted from a cousin. Take your time, the room’s good till twelve.” She nodded at him and stepped out the room, shutting the door gently behind her.

Anders sighed. _Eight people._ It was hard to even think about, harder so without Justice helping him. He had to tell Hawke as soon as possible; tell Hawke and find Xenon and—

There was a soft rustling from behind him.

“Who’s there?” called Anders, getting to his feet. Electricity crackled in the gaps between his fingers.

A sandy head appeared from under the bed. “Hey, doc.”

Anders snuffed out the sparks. “Cricket.” He frowned. “How long have you been listening?” Not that it mattered. Cricket was so deep in the Railroad Anders doubted he existed outside of it.

“There’s a tra’door unner ‘ere.” Cricket sniffed, a crackly, phelgmy affair.

Anders rolled his eyes and beckoned the boy forward. Cricket’s muddy eyes lit up, and he wriggled out from under the bed and scampered towards him. A few brushes of his fingers and a burst of rejuvenation got rid of the inflammation and the built-up mucus in his lungs. “Where were you that you got sick like this? Where’s Evelina?”

“Big Sister hasn’ been ‘ome for a while,” said Cricket, wiping his nose on his sleeve. His voice was a lot clearer now. “I think she’s out on a transpor’ run. She doesn’ always tell us.”

Evelina was running around with smugglers now? “So you’ve been on your own now? You and Tim and Millie?”

“Yeah,” said Cricket. He sniffed a couple times and giggled. “It feels nice to breathe. Thanks.” He looked up at Anders, and his face fell when he saw the expression on Anders’ face. “It’s really not so bad, doc. Mistress Selby makes sure we all get food, and I make Tim and Millie do their homework.”

“All the same, you three shouldn’t be alone.” This was very strange. Evelina would cut her own throat before she abandoned the children she’d taken under her wing; Anders could respect that, even if it meant she ended up doing some unsavoury things. (He’d never forget those two hours he’d spent snooping around Madame Lusine’s drives for Evelina’s message – or the fifteen minutes he’d spent under said desk when the Madame had suddenly entered her room.) Where had she gone now?

“We’re not alone. There’s Melba next door, and she’s always nice. There’s a Carta outpost at the end of the corridor that keeps thieves and things away. And Casim says we can bum for another three weeks before he has to kick us out,” said Cricket.

“Tell Casim he can choose between that extra rent and paying for every doctor’s appointment for the rest of _time,”_  said Anders, immediately. The man had haemorrhoids—he’d reconsider, and _fast._

Cricket giggled again. And then sobered—far too quickly for someone his age. “I hope she comes back soon.”

Anders hated that the boy sounded like he’d lost hope already.

…

Fenris gazed pensively at the great steel slaves chained to the walls. His mouth was pressed into a thin line; his thoughts were visible on his face, and they didn’t seem to be about the evils of unchecked magic. For once.

Sebastian looked appropriately uncomfortable. Good. Hawke wouldn’t want anything less.

Varric looked like he always did when he entered the Gallows: vaguely nauseated. Like he’d stepped in cold oatmeal with bare feet. _Eugh._ “Why are we here, Hawke?”

“To do a spot of shopping, of course,” said Hawke, brightly. “You can almost taste it in the air. Nothing quite like it.”

Fenris fixed skeptical eyes on her. “Taste what.”

“Misery, mostly. You suppose the Orlesians bring their cheese by this place? Let it ferment a bit, soak up some of that _désespoir_ …”“Well, I certainly regret asking,” said Varric, looking doubtfully at her.

“You brought that on yourself, messere,” said Sebastian, dryly.

The Gallows courtyard was a large, tall-walled rectangle floored in cold marble. Scanning turrets topped the walls, and Hawke pulled a face at one as it passed over her. Small, orderly stalls near the entrance sold mage-make medications and cosmetics, as well as handcarved rune modules, enchanted objects, and other small items. Hawke would visit them more often if they weren’t all staffed by Tranquil.

Dear Maker, those Tranquil. They creeped her out. They scared Bethany, and they angered Anders. That would have been enough for— _no._ She counted them each time, and _now—_

“There are more Tranquil here,” said Fenris, reading her thoughts, and some part of her was pleased to hear the muted anger in his voice. He understood what was happening.

“Well, they are no longer a danger to the rest of us,” said Sebastian, solemnly. Hawke wanted to _shake_ him till the bolts in his shiny-ass neckbrace rattled out. “Consider that the Templars would not have done this without a reason.”

“I’m just glad Blondie wasn’t here to hear you say that,” said Varric, who looked a lot less at ease than his words implied.

“I’m sure he knows this place better than any of us,” said Sebastian, smiling into the distance. Hawke did not miss the way Fenris turned to stare at him. The elf’s expression was still blank but he was paying _very_ close attention.

“You can’t prove anything,” said Hawke, flippant. They’d reached a stall selling small pots of herbal mixes. “Mmn. Smells nice.”

“Please use a tester,” said the Tranquil behind the counter, pointing at a tiny roll-on tube. “This muskmallow has been responsibly harvested.” She was a tall woman with short reddish hair and very pink skin. The arms of her jumpsuit had been ziptied down around her wrists. The sunburst on her forehead was old, a raised brown scar. Hawke couldn’t take her eyes off it.

Fenris took the tester and applied a little to the back of his hand. A single sniff froze him to the spot. His eyes were large and dark and far away.

“Fenris?” asked Hawke, waving a hand in front of his face.

He shook his head and came back to himself. “It brings back memories,” he explained, putting the tester down and picking up a larger vial of perfumed oil. “How much is this?”

“Memories,” echoed Hawke, frowning, watching the Tranquil ring up the purchase. Her hands were methodical, unhurried; no flourishes or quirks of habit, just movements measured for economy. “I hope they were _good_ memories.”

“They were memories,” said Fenris, shrugging. “Presumably mine. I would like to see them at least once.”

“That’s fair,” said Hawke, still frowning.

“Hey, Hawke,” said Sebastian, over by another stall. “Look at what’s back in stock.” He was doing something funny with his eyebrows. One hand held a giant lotion dispenser with generic plant pictures on it.

“Impressive,” said Hawke, unimpressed. “Restocking your bedside drawer?”

Sebastian rolled his eyes. “Exothermic balm. It’s the same kind our dear Captain uses.” He smiled winningly. “Please don’t ask me how I know that.”

“You realise what you are doing,” said Fenris. His voice was flat. He was hiding something.

Sebastian opened his mouth as though to say something, but the words came out after a couple seconds of silence. “I do, my friend.” His eyes were knowing. _Too bad, Chantry boy._ Hawke trusted the Railroad. They had some of the best hackers – and crackers – in the world.

“Okay, so we’re getting Isabela a surprise. Somebody remind me to wrap it up and write Sebby’s name on it.” Hawke grabbed a bottle of her mother’s favourite hand lotion—her father used to make it for her, skills he’d learned here—and proffered both to the Tranquil behind the counter. She leaned over to watch them ring it up and wrap it. “Can you put a ribbon on it?”

“Our apologies, messere. We have only one colour of ribbon, and it is not a complementary colour.”

“That’s fine. Isabela’ll think it’s cute.” The ribbon was extraneous. All Hawke needed was the wrapper on the bottle of lotion—the back had a series of dots on it that would, when scanned by ordinary comms, give you a product insert’s worth of information.

Unless you had the Railroad’s version of the app, which used a hidden key to give you access to one of their newsfeeds.

Hawke’s contact in the Gallows—a small bit of spyware in the mother computer—had reported some kind of disturbance. Not in as many words, but Templar patrols had been scheduled to increase. Requisition forms now had several additional questions. The mages were now going to get a heavier dose of antipsychotics with their food. It all pointed to something that had Meredith uneasy, and Hawke had a feeling this was worth looking into.

Call it a hunch.

**Author's Note:**

> i'm usually ghosting over at ialessan.tumblr.com


End file.
